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Fiction-Online Volume 6 Number 3
FICTION-ONLINE
An Internet Literary Magazine
Volume 6, Number 3
May-June, 1999
EDITOR'S NOTE:
FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing
electronically through e-mail and the Internet on a bimonthly basis.
The contents include short stories, play scripts or excerpts, excerpts of
novels or serialized novels, and poems. Some contributors to the
magazine are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of
Washington, DC, a group affiliated with Washington Independent
Writers. However, the magazine is an independent entity and solicits
and publishes material from the public.
To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please e-
mail a brief request to
ngwazi@clark.net
To submit manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the
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of the message itself, rather than as an attachment.
Back issues of the magazine may be obtained by e-mail from
the editor or by anonymous ftp (or gopher) from the website
http:/www.etext.org
where issues are filed in the directory /pub/Zines.
The FICTION-ONLINE home page, courtesy of the Writer's
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE: The copyright for each piece of
material published is retained by its author. Each subscriber is licensed
to possess one electronic copy and to make one hard copy for personal
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explicitly licensed, are reserved.
William Ramsay, Editor
=================================================
CONTENTS
Editor's Note
Contributors
"To a Sister Who Did Not Land on Earth," a poem
W. R. Hastings
"In the End," a short-short story
Don Barbera
"The Easy Way," an excerpt (chapter 14) from
the novel "Ay, Chucho!"
William Ramsay
"Plans," part 5 of the play, "Miss Julie"
Otho Eskin
=================================================
CONTRIBUTORS
DONALD R. BARBERA is a former journalist for the Tulsa Tribune,
the Pittsburgh Morning Sun, and others. He is currently working in
marketing and sales in the corporate world, and does part-time
university teaching.
OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international affairs,
has published short stories and has had numerous plays read and
produced in Washington, notably "Act of God." His play "Duet" has
been produced at the Elizabethan Theater at the Folger Library in
Washington, and is being performed with some regularity in theaters in
the United States, Europe, and Australia. He is currently working on a
suspense novel with a Washington background.
W. R. HASTINGS is an attorney and a former government official.
He now lives in the Berkshires, where he gardens, investigates
aerodynamics, and writes poetry. His works have been published in
leading journals.
WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World
energy problems. He is also a writer and a member of the Northwest
Fiction Group. His play, "Through the Wormhole," recently received a
reading at the Writers Center in Bethesda, Maryland.
=================================================
TO A SISTER WHO DID NOT LAND ON EARTH
by W. R Hastings
She was always ready for love
the way lions love zebras
and bears find blueberry bushes
but I was just a boy then,
had only brothers, trouble in my shape,
and thought that love meant
having muscles or round hips and
touching until all your chemicals
smelt like sweet cider.
Her face arises now from dreams:
high cheeks, her blue delphinium eyes
relentlessly following those of others,
her laughter like a steel hoe striking stones,
her hair out of place, a smoke tree in bloom,
a heron lightness in the way she moves.
We sometimes wrestle as we talk,
dance wordlessly to '50's music
or argue all night long.
Her arrival takes me to gardens,
to places where yesterday's rain lingers in leafmold
or streams over old stones along the same runs
it took last year and the year before.
Though now we meet often under eyelids,
there is still one question I cannot ask her:
what is it like not to have been enfleshed
with lipid fats, proteins and carbohydrates?
How is it not to be and so be?
==================================================
IN THE END
by Don Barbera
Vernon and Willie didn't have enough sense to poor piss out of a boot
even with the instructions written on the heel. Now, they were
contemplating robbing a convenience store. Once they had it all worked
out, Vernon drove the raggedy truck to the front of the store where Willie
hopped out and went inside.
After wandering down the aisles for several moments, Willie grabbed
some chips and a candy bar then stood in the waiting line as if he were
going to pay for the items. When the last customer paid, Willie waited
until the customer left the store and then with his hand jammed in his
jacket pocket he bellowed at the night clerk, "give me all the money in the
register or I'll blow your brains across the counter".
The man behind the counter responded immediately. His actions suggested
that this wasn't his first time being a part of a robbery. The clerk moved
with precision removing the money from the cash register, handing the bag
to Willie and stepping back behind the counter in one smooth move. That's
when it all went bad.
When Willie removed brought his hand forward to grab the money he
didn't not realizing that it was the same hand that supposedly held a gun
in it. Willie didn't notice it at first but the clerk did. While Willie's only
weapon was his finger in his jacket pocket, the clerk had a .357 magnum
that was very real.
Fear hit Willie like a left hook. For just a second his feet locked to the
floor as the clerk snatched his pistol from beneath the counter. In an
instant, Willie broke free and sprinted to the door and into the parking
lot. With pistol in hand the clerk leaped over the counter and opened fire
as Willie zigged and zagged into the night. Just as Willie reached Vernon's
open truck door, a bullet caught him in the ass knocking forward into the
truck.
The impact of the bullet and the remainder of Willie's speed knocked him
forward and into the passenger's seat next to Vernon as they started their
get away. Screeching from the parking lot, Vernon failed to notice the
one-way sign and turned directly into the oncoming traffic where they
promptly collided head-on with a police cruiser. The collision threw both
of them forward and smashed their heads into the safety glass.
They were both groggy and glassy-eyed when the police came to Vernon's
truck. The store clerk arrived a few seconds later and blurted out the
entire story. They arrested Vernon and Willie on the spot. A brief search
produced the bag of money. That's when the clerk spoke up again. That's
the bag I gave him, " he said. "He snatched it out of my hand and ran out
before I could get to him." The policeman with the bag opened it and
looked at the contents for several seconds before saying, "are you sure this
is the bag?" The clerk looked closely and realized he had made a mistake.
It was the right bag but it didn't contain money. It was his lunch-a bologna
sandwich, a bag of chips and two Twinkies. When the policeman emptied
the contents onto the hood of Vernon's truck, everyone laughed including
Vernon. Willie's ass hurt too much for him to see the humor.
===================================================FIDEL AND ELECTRONICS
by William Ramsay
(Note: this is chapter 14 of the novel, "Ay, Chucho!")
My mother had figured out a good way to get publicity -- not that
the "March of the Little People" was covered on Cuban TV or in
"Granma" or in any of the other official media in Cuba. But the next day,
Sunday, I overheard people in the hotel -- two Colombians, a Czech trade
delegation, two Russian engineers -- talking in guarded tones about the
"little people," and I saw a group of teenagers cavorting along a sidewalk
on the Rampa, crouching, jerking about, pretending to be dwarfs or
twitching in caricatures of epilepsy. Walking along the Malecon, I heard
an African and an Oriental talking in fractured English about "that
foolishness at Lenin Park" -- as well as about a new bank robbery in
Holguin. At Holguin, a provincial capital in the north of the old Castro
country, a cat had been reported involved, and the robbers were supposed
to have escaped in the direction of Mayari and the Sierras.
Paco came around in the afternoon. He sat down on the edge of the
bed in my hotel room and made apologetic faces, apparently to excuse his
inglorious escape from the police. Fidel was said to be really angry. My
mother was in custody and her case, anti-socialist behavior and
possession of illicit drugs, was "under investigation." Then Paco must
have taken in what I hoped was the withering look on my face, because
he immediately volunteered that my mother had refused to get away while
there was still time. "Really, Chucho, no kidding. I tried, really I did,
Chucho." He twisted his big diamond pinky ring as if it were causing him
agony.
"Where were you after the march on the merry-go-round?"
"I was coming back, Chucho, really, I was looking for the car that
was supposed to pick us up afterward. Then I saw the cops closing in
and I ran into Jerry, who told me to get out."
"Yeah, sure," I said. Paco was the kind of guy who would always
leave someone else holding the bag -- it was my mother's fault, or
misfortune, that she had decided to hook up with someone like Amelia's
brother. The fact remained that now I had, not just one parent, but both
my mother and father in Fidel's jails.
As for me, Pineda had me brought in for questioning later in the
afternoon. Slumped in his chair, his triple chins sunk despondently on his
chest, he interrogated me lackadaisically, as if I had been caught
jaywalking. I figured that my G-2 shadow must have reported to him that
I had only been an onlooker at the demonstration. Finally he said he was
releasing me, but warned me that any intervention of mine on behalf of
my mother would be looked at as "unfriendly." I asked what was going
to happen to her.
"If those tapes appear on American television," he said, "I won't
answer for the consequences."
Aha, I thought. The Canadian TV crew. Fearless Fidel didn't want
to look ridiculous on CNN. I nodded.
"The Comandante wishes you to continue on your work."
"Yes, Comrade."
"I don't want to be called 'Comrade' by a gusano!"
"Yes, sir!" I said, getting up and leaving. I was unhappy about
mamacita's imprisonment, but I was glad that somebody on our side was
keeping the videotapes as a card to play against Fidel -- and that
consequently Mama should be safe for the time being. So the only thing
I could think of to do was to continue with my efforts on the cellular
phone front.
I had checked earlier with Dominguez who told me that the spooks
had received my request. But ten days or so had passed and no response.
Then on the Tuesday I had a message from Mr. Marcus that arrangements
for a "shipment" were being made. They were waiting for a suitable
courier. Meanwhile, no word on my mother, who was still being held
incommunicado. But from an English tourist I found out that both the
"New York Times" and the "International Herald Tribune" had had short
articles on the "little people." The tapes, however, had not yet appeared,
I assume because the Canadian producer had been negotiating with the
Cubans.
Looking back, I can see now that at that point I began to go
downhill. I don't know whether it was something about strong rum, or
whether it's the way I handle or can't handle my drinking -- I've never
really been at ease with alcohol. Or maybe it was the situation. I had
organized the transmitters and handsets for the phone system, and while
I had enough to worry about, I didn't have enough to do. Waiting,
waiting. I began to feel that everybody was against me. Except maybe
Valeska. Valeska and rum -- the week after the march, those two were
threatening to become my downfall. I would get too tiddly, then she and
I would start something up, a little pleasure, a few more promises about
consumer goods, then hours of drugged sleep. One night in my room, she
sat looking down on me as I tried my best to get my dingdong up and
going. Her hair had recently evolved into a sort of dark greenish color,
and it hung down around her face as she made a little pout, her legs
working futilely, the sweat standing on her temples. "God, the work a
woman has to do for you!" she said.
I told her I was sorry. "Let's not give up," I said, "I can still do
it."
She sighed. "I'll turn over." She turned away from me, pulling me
to her rear end, and started to move again, her pelvic bones clunking on
mine. My prick started to feel better. Oh yes!
"I need some more nail polish," she said.
"Tomorrow," I said, gasping.
The phone rang. I leaned over to answer it, reluctantly plucking
myself away from Valeska.
It was Paco.
"Chucho, my sister's here. Just came in on the midnight charter from
Miami."
"What!" I said, sitting up. "Christ!" The condom I was wearing
began to collapse between my legs like a miniature pup tent.
"Don't worry."
"Shit. What made her decide to come to Cuba?"
"She'll tell you about that herself. We're at her room at the
Nacional, waiting for you."
Oh God. I cleared my throat and told Valeska I had to go out. I
went into the bathroom to wash up.
"Oh come on, it's eleven o'clock, can't it wait until tomorrow?"
I shook my head no, no.
"Another woman?"
I said no it wasn't another woman.
"Give me a lift to the Rampa, then."
I told her I was only going over to the Nacional, which is about ten
blocks along the Calzada from the Presidente. She said fine, she wanted
to see a friend there anyway. I figured I could ditch her quickly when we
arrived, and so off we went in a cab -- followed by a dark gray Volga that
I was growing accustomed to seeing in my wake ever since Lenin Park.
I walked into the lobby of the Nacional, getting ready to escape from
Valeska as quickly as possible, when I saw Amelia and Paco sitting in the
bar just off the lobby.
"O.K., I've got to go," I said, backing away. I glanced over my
shoulder. Paco was waving at me. Amelia, in a rose-colored dress, smiled
and raised a glass at me.
"Kiss good-bye." said Valeska, looking over at Paco.
"Later," I said.
"Who's that pudgy girl with Paco?" she said.
"Just a friend, tell you later." I edged farther away.
She leaned close to me, gave me a peck on the cheek and, in the way
she has, poked her long sharp fingernail through a gap in my shirt and into
my belly button. "She looks like a schoolteacher," said Valeska.
I backed away, waving, and then turned. Amelia gazed intently at
me as I walked over to the bar. The distance between us over the soiled
maroon carpet must have been no more than ten yards, but the walk
seemed to last longer than a moon mission.
"Who is that, Chucho?" she said loudly.
"Please," I said, "Don't use that name here!"
"Under any name, darling, you look wonderful." She put her mouth
up to be kissed. "But what shall I call you?"
"Felipe," I said.
"I call you crazy," said Amelia. "Well, anyway, who is that tarty-
looking woman?"
"What woman?" I said.
"She works for the government," said Paco.
"Yes, the government," I said.
"But doesn't everybody work for the government here?"
"Yes," said Paco.
"No," I said.
Amelia looked over my shoulder. "And why did she poke you in the
stomach?"
"You see..." I began.
"Why did she?" said Paco.
"She's still there," said Amelia.
"Oh," I said.
"She's waving at you."
"Better go over," said Paco.
A sudden inspiration. "She's waving at Paco."
"Me?" said Paco.
"You," I said in what I hoped was a decisive voice.
Paco smiled. "Sure, O.K., Chucho, I mean Felipe. I mean sure,
sure." He got up and went over to Valeska, leaning over her and falling
into what looked like an intimate conversation.
"Why didn't you say she was a friend of Paco's?" said Amelia.
"Well, she is."
"I see she is." Paco's lips were close to Valeska's ear now. Amelia
looked into my eyes. "Good to see you, sweetheart, may I call you
sweetheart?"
Paco and Valeska had moved away and were leaving the lobby,
headed for the mezzanine restaurant. "Yes, of course you may." I kissed
her. Tender lips, just like always. "But why are you here, Amelia?"
"To see you," she whispered, "'hush-hush Chucho.'"
"Oh," I said.
"No, no," she said and laughed. "I don't want to mess up your
'project' here, whatever it is. I really came to get Elena out of custody."
What?"
"I'm not going to have my client treated this way."
"But, but..."
"Communists or not, they can't get away with this."
"But Amelia."
But me no buts, I'm going to get" -- she lowered her voice -- "your
mother out of jail and out of this country. Come on, let's go up to my
room, we can talk more privately there." She squeezed my hand. "Mr.
Whoever-you-are!"
When Amelia gets into one of her decisive moods, there's no point
arguing with her.
The Nacional's elevator was working that night. Inside, as I tried
not to look at myself in the mirrored walls lest I see someone I didn't
want to see staring back at me, she said, "I've got something for you.
Upstairs." Inside her room, she rummaged in her suitcase and handed me
two large manila envelopes. "I don't know what it's about," she said. As
she took off her dress, I ripped the envelopes open. While she went to
the bathroom, I pulled out: (1) a wiring diagram for a telecommunications
switching module, (2) a circuit board for the key switch in the module, (3)
a network diagram for a phone switching system, (4) a BASIC program
code for sequencing and "handing off" calls in a cellular phone system.
Mr. Marcus -- or his colleague Peterson in Miami -- had found his
courier.
I don't know what it was, the freshness of Amelia's body, the glow
of her smile, or the relief at getting the cellular data, but I didn't have
any more trouble in bed that night. Maybe it was being in a sense incognito
-- even though Amelia knew the real me, yet another person in Havana
who knew my real name -- I still felt disguised, like Zorro in the old
Republic serials, or like the Man in the Iron Mask in the Douglas
Fairbanks, Sr. flick. I was the dashing, romantic star that night, making
love to the lovely leading lady.
Until she turned over and said, "Jesse, you forgot me again!" and I
had to lean over, shuck my star part, and take on the faithful love slave's
role. But even slaves have fun -- after all, think of Kirk Douglas as
Spartacus.
For the next two weeks, I saw a good deal of Amelia. She was busy
trying to arrange some deal to free my mother, but she also kept at me
about my efforts to get my father out. I told her I was hopeful, but that
it was a little complicated. It felt complicated enough at that instant, I
was trying to get Pineda to let me test out the cellular network on just
four units -- but he was insisting on at least ten.
"We have to look like it's a real system," he said. "We have to be able to
let a group of delegates to this conference try it out for themselves."
In vain I tried to convince him that the principle was the same with
four or ten or a hundred, and that we needed to minimize the chance that
last- minute nitty-gritty problems would foul things up. He looked at me
and smiled.
"I don't know why you're arguing about this -- when it has already
been decided at the highest levels." With his bristly little mustache and
his prominent front teeth, he reminded me too much of a happy rat. But
rat or no, I figured he was only relaying Castro's royal commands.
"By the way," he said, "who is this new woman you're seeing, this
gusana from Miami?" I started to hedge, but he interrupted me. "I know
she's here about Mrs. Revueltos. Anything else?"
I shrugged. "An old friend."
He raised an eyebrow. I asked whether there was any news about
my mother. He told me the case was being "evaluated."
"At the highest level?"
"At the highest level. There have been psychiatric tests. Some of
the doctors think she's crazy."
I could have told Pineda that without bothering with a test. My
work was now cut out for me -- but at least it looked as if I had an
outside chance of making the deadline, now just three weeks ahead. It
would be close, but I already had a lot of the system together, installed in
four MININT motor pool cars -- the easiest thing I had to do was to
organize six more units -- one of which was to go into a new Alfa
Romeo, Fidel's favorite automobile. The hard part was finishing the rest
of the system. We had the space in a shed on top of the Havana Libre for
my main transmitter and the essential computer links, and a location on
the roof for my antenna. I was having a cable installed from the shed to
an empty room below, where the main computer processing would be
done. Luckily, we had been able to get some equipment from a Mexican
subsidiary of IBM. My colleague at the university had supplied me with
two students, and MININT had come through with a silent, beady-eyed,
experienced engineer to direct the central operations.
But it was Eddy who saved my life -- he was my good right hand.
One day he came into my office smiling. "I've just told Apodaca that the
two circuit boards you asked about have to be ready. Or else."
"Or else what?" I asked.
"Or else you would report it to 'the highest levels.'"
"You're learning, kid," I said.
One day Eddy and I had been drinking beer after work and I must
have winced once too often at the 'Doctor' label. "What's the matter,
Doctor?" he said.
"Eddy, I'm not really a doctor." The secret of my identity was really
getting on my nerves. The other people on the project hadn't been told
much about my background, they just assumed that my doctorate was in
engineering or one of the physical sciences.
I explained to him about being just a plain engineer.
"Oh well, then, you're an ingeniero. Even better. Where did you
study?" he said.
I hesitated. "Miami."
"Miami -- you've lived in America?"
"Yes."
He shook his head. "What I wouldn't do to go to America!" He
shook his head. "It must be like Carnival every day."
"Maybe you'll get a chance one day," I said.
"I'd be your slave." He looked at me, his eyes glowing.
"Nobody needs to be a slave to anyone."
"I wouldn't mind being yours, Doctor -- I mean ingeniero." And he
put his arm on mine and gave me a look so intense that it made me
nervous. "I have so much love and admiration for you, sir." His hand
pressed more strongly.
"Don't, Eddy, hey!" His arm was traveling up to embrace my neck.
He sat back on the barstool and lowered his head. "I'm sorry, I can't help
myself."
"Pull yourself together. Honestly!" I said. God, that was all I
needed, three girlfriends and a boyfriend to boot. Eddy was invaluable to
me, but he'd have to handle his own social life.
Speaking of sex, during these last weeks before the conference I
continued to see both women. One day, I spotted Amelia on the Malecon.
She was in her sweats. A light mist wisped about the edge of the sea.
She invited me for a stroll. After a few minutes, she picked up the pace,
and soon she was jogging. I was trying out some 4-peso Cuban-made
sandals and they weren't made for athletics. They felt like slippers on my
feet as I broke into a jog to keep up. Soon she was moving faster. "Stop,
slow down, will you." My big toe began to chafe against the crudely cut
sandal strap.
"You're getting soft, Chucho."
"Oh come on."
She picked up the pace more. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I
asked her how it was getting on with my mother's case. She shook her
head and said that the police wouldn't even let her interview Mother.
"They have her tucked away in some loony bin," she said. "But they
know we have the tapes."
So the tapes of the demonstration were in safe hands, thank God --
Amelia's. Then the cheap thong on the left sandal gave way, the sandal
slipped off, and I tripped and fell on my face on the concrete. I raised
myself slightly. Nothing broken.
"Poor Chucho!" She wiped away the sand where my knee was
slightly skinned and kissed it. I sat up and took a deep breath. She put
her arm around me and asked me how my "secret project" was working
out. I told her I was optimistic. She said it had better work pretty soon
or something else would have to be done about my father. I leaned over
to rub more sand off my wounded knee.
"Easier said than done," I said. I told her I wasn't even sure that my
father would leave prison if they opened the doors and shooed him out, he
seemed so anxious to appease Fidel.
"You make it all too complicated, like the prison break idea Paco
told me about. All too much fuss."
"It can't be helped."
"Too much fuss -- there must be an easier way."
I made a face. It was simple enough for her to talk about easier ways
- - it wasn't her problem, I thought.
She got up and started running in place. "Come on, let's stretch the
legs a little more. Is your knee O.K.?"
"Yeah, sure, but..."
"Get off your butt, then, Chucho. Come on!"
"But my sandals..."
"Run in your bare feet. Come on, let's go." She started to move off.
I took another deep breath, flipped off the other sandal, stood up,
and jogged off after her. She kept talking, but my knee hurt and I
couldn't concentrate on what she was saying. Now my feet began to hurt
too from the rough concrete surface of the path.
In retrospect, I should have listened more carefully. When Amelia
gets an idea fixed in her skull, there's no stopping her. It makes her fun
to be around sometimes. But it can be dangerous at other times.
She was ten yards ahead of me now. "Come on, lazy. Get a move
on!"
"My feet!" I yelled.
"Your ass!" came her voice back through the stiff sea breeze.
"You're always giving up too soon!"
I stopped and looked down at my feet. I started to move again,
slowly. Even walking hurt now. I thought of Pepita, nostalgic for the old
days when at least I didn't have to walk on the wounded parts of my body.
Far ahead, running like a plumpish gazelle, Amelia was still talking, her
voice fading in the wind. "For instance," I heard her say, "suppose that
we could..." I followed at a crippled walk, now mostly hearing only the
sounds, not the words: I caught the single words "women," "marital," but
little else. Little did I know, that that day on the Malecon, that I was
missing out on an idea of Amelia's that would almost be the end of my
father, my mother, and me.
Three days later, coming back to my room at the Presidente, I found
my door slightly ajar. I pushed it open carefully. Marcus, in a red polo
shirt with a Boca Raton Club badge, his thinning hair barely covering the
top of his skull, was sitting on my bed reading my copy of "The Other
Side of Midnight" by Sidney Shelton. He didn't look up. He said, "You
can learn a lot from this kind of book."
"If you're here to pressure me, forget it, I need more time. My plan
should be implemented shortly."
He now looked up and waved expansively, his chunky body bouncing
on the soft bed, creaking and swaying like a toy top. "What is your
opinion of Amelia Santos?"
I told him my opinion.
He nodded. "A very resourceful girl. How about her loyalty?"
"Oh for Christ's sake, is this a witch hunt?"
"She seems to have what it takes."
"To have what it takes to do what?"
He got up, putting on a brand new Panama hat which was slightly
small for him. "Not like some of the rest of us."
"I told you, Marcus. Just be a little more patient."
He opened the door and smirked at me. "'Patient'! This is the U.S.
government you're talking to." He turned, showing the tail of his polo
shirt like the red flag on an overlength truckload, and clumped out of the
door.
As the door, shimmying slightly, shut behind him, I thought: God
save these United States!
#
Meanwhile the preparations for the demonstration of the cellular
phone system were beginning to look good. I went in to report to Pineda
one day, and he took me along to Fidel himself. A group of people were
in his office, but when Fidel saw me, he waved them away impatiently.
I set the plans for the network down in front of him and he gobbled it up
like a new toy.
"Magnificent. Qaddafi will be out of his mind with envy."
I gathered that he was running a socialist charisma contest with the
Libyan leader.
"How many? Only ten?" he said.
My stomach felt hollow. I explained to him that we were pressing
our luck in trying out a new system on even ten units.
"Well," he said. He clapped me on the shoulder, and it hurt, but I
suppose the honor was worth it. His large mouth widened into a delighted
smile. "We have a sacred obligation never to be satisfied," he said. I
recognized one of his favorite mottoes. He swung his chair around, so
that his head was half-hidden by a pile of documents: I understood that
he read fifty or so of them every day. Sticking out of the pile was the
border of what looked like a comic book -- they said Fidel's tastes in
literature were not of the highest. But I should talk -- I hardly read
anything anymore -- I prefer the old movies, where men are men -- real
men. On the wall, a photo of Fidel as a teenager with Raul and what
looked like his half-brother Ramon, together with an middle-aged woman
in a dark dress that looked like a collapsed balloon. He congratulated me
at some length on being part of the resistance to the imperialists. The seat
of my trousers were starting to feel imperially sweaty.
"Chucho!" he said. We were on first-name terms now, which was
fair enough since most people who didn't call him "Comandante" called
him "Fidel." "Chucho, you should really think about throwing in my lot
with your native land. Think about it! Cuba needs technical competence
-- and those who contribute to the Revolution will be rewarded.
Handsomely rewarded." He smiled as if he were hoping I wouldn't know
how few rewards even the big shots in Cuba were able to come up with
in those days of Soviet retrenchment. I said that the only reward I
wanted would be my father -- and my mother -- released.
"Well, we'll see," he said. He smiled. "But for yourself, consider
staying on. If the Cuban Republic can keep the youth, we can leave the
old people to their shopping malls in Miami."
Uh oh! I wasn't too happy about being considered what amounted
to a potential hostage for my parents -- on the other hand, I couldn't very
well go back to the States under the present circumstances anyway. On
the opposite wall was a photo of a pretty young girl. I recognized her as
Fidel's illegitimate daughter, Alina Revuelta, whose picture I had seen in
"Parade" magazine at home -- in Cuba, Fidel's private life doesn't get
much publicity. Her family name was Revuelta, not Revueltos, like mine,
but the coincidence started me thinking about myself, and what you could
call my "illegitimacy" maybe, my being Cuban but not Cuban, my being,
as I felt, totally American -- but still not quite like the mass of "other"
Americans, the 90% or 70% or whatever.
"I wonder whether you'd ever completely trust the son of Federico
Revueltos, Comandante."
Fidel thought, staring at his right hand as if he were looking for the
cigar that used to live there before he gave up the habit some five years
ago. "No, that's nonsense," he said after a moment, raising his chin to a
Mussolini- type altitude. He told me that Stalinist guilt by association
would never be part of the Revolution. Many comrades had parents or
friends who were counterrevolutionaries. "The hombre nuevo of Cuban
socialism would" -- he raised one finger -- "live and be judged totally as
an individual." He smiled. "And individuals with talent -- he nodded
meaningfully at me -- would be rewarded according to their merits by a
grateful people."
I told him that I had a lot of work to do -- the phones weren't ready
yet. He made a face, waved me away and picked up a phone.
I stood up, thinking: could it be that Cuba was after all where I
belonged? On the way out, I looked around the anteroom at Fidel's
bull-necked masseur, at his rigid-faced military aide, at the dumpy form
of Pineda, sitting absolutely upright, perched on the edge of an easy chair,
as if he were getting ready to be electrocuted. I saw the look of awe on
their faces as they prepared for him to appear in the doorway behind me.
I realized then: being a Cuban Cuban might only be possible for me if I
could make myself believe that Fidel was infallible. Maybe I could have
believed in Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. But the aging revolutionary sitting in
the shadow of his documents and his comic books -- that wasn't my idea
of a hero.
The last week before the conference was hectic. As you know if
you've ever worked with electronics, something always goes wrong at the
last minute. Usually several things. Come to think of it, that's true about
more than electronics. This particular time we found that the transceivers
that we were using in the individual telephone units did not come
equipped to operate on the central transmitter's frequencies. Fortunately,
though, they were compatible with them. In other words, if we added an
extra circuit board to each of the ten sample phones, we were in business.
Unfortunately, the circuit boards we needed would take several weeks
to get -- if we were lucky. So in order to be sure of making the units
work, I chose instead to change the crystals and rework the antenna array
for the main transmitter. It was more involved and expensive, but the
changes could be made in a couple of days of hard work. And with the
help of Baez, my morose engineer, my friend Apodaca from the
university, and of course Eddy, we were able to carry it off. Fidel, a photo
bug, dropped in unexpectedly one day and snapped pictures of me and the
computer and the main equipment rack. He patted me on the back and
gave me a cologned abrazo. "On time, right?" he said gleefully.
I said yes, sure, Comandante -- not so gleefully.
One day, I met Amelia for a mojito at the Capri. Rain came down in
sheets just outside the open end of the veranda, and her lilac perfume cut
through the moldy dampness in the air. She had just come from visiting
my father in prison.
"Is he still the loyal fidelista?" I said.
"No, not any more."
"What happened?"
"Elena. He's furious about her arrest. He says that Fidel has
besmirched the family honor, that the Revolution should never touch the
sanctity of Cuban womanhood."
I tried to think of my mother as the archetype of Pure Cuban
Womanhood and failed. I shook my head. "He's crazy," I said.
"It should be a straightforward matter to get him out now. At least
in theory."
"Oh, 'the easy way,'" I said.
"You are so simple-minded sometimes, Chucho," she said, picking
up her drink. "Come on, let's dance." Amelia prided herself on her
mambo. After dancing with Valeska, though, Amelia felt like leading a
smooth-running machine around the floor. Precision, rhythm -- but her
soul wasn't in it.
I visited my father again in La Cabana and found that Amelia was
right about his change in attitude.
"Beasts, that's what they are, Chucho, beasts!" He pounded his fist
on the little wooden table that separated us -- I was amazed by his energy
and the bristling look in his eye.
"Shh, papacito, shh, not so loud. And not 'Chucho,' please, at least
so loud."
"It makes me think differently about a lot of things. I've been
talking in the exercise yard to your friend Pillo, and I've come to respect
his viewpoint."
"You do? A right-winger?"
"Respect, son." He raised a finger. "I didn't say I agreed with him.
But his ideas are very moderate in some ways, and we both agree on
Castro's misuse of power."
I could tell things had changed if it was now 'Castro' and not 'Fidel.'
"That's good, I'm glad you've made contact. It may be useful." "I
think he has integrity, he's the kind of man you could trust -- I'm sure of
that."
"Well," I said, "you can't really trust anybody completely, Father."
He sighed and stared, looking through me with his heavy eyeglasses.
"I used to think that under Marxism all of humanity would come to
experience mutual universal trust."
"Yeah, well," I said.
As I left the damp halls of the prison, I was at least glad that my
father had made the contact with Pillo. I still couldn't see how I'd be able
to get Fidel to let my father and Pillo out at the same time -- dammit.
During that time, I also received an unexpectedly friendly letter from
Pepita, hoping that I would be able to get back "home" soon. She didn't
know if she'd get another chance to visit Cuba. Imagine, there I was,
juggling Valeska and Amelia, all I needed was Pepita too!
By the opening day of the conference, we had installed units in Fidel's
Alfa, in five MININT cars, and in four INIT (Tourist Ministry) vans, and
my assistant Baez sat at the console of the big transmitter on the roof of
the Habana Libre, looking more than ever as if his girl friend (if such a
person could actually exist) had just left him for a bus driver. The
morning of the demonstration was rainy, with fresh gusts of wind off the
sea, grayish-green whitecaps just visible through the murky skies over the
white and pastel block- like buildings of downtown Havana. I was so
busy, checking out each of the units, making test calls between the Alfa
and the MININT and INIT vehicles, running a status check and
debugging routine through the computer at the hotel, that I didn't have
time to notice whether I was soaked to the skin with rain or just sweating
up my own storm. The hotel lobby entrance was guarded by soldiers in
riot gear, shields and helmets with plastic face guards. Members of
delegations to the First Annual Latin American Rural Initiatives
Conference from Peru, Argentina, Panama, Honduras, passed in and out
again through the automatic doors -- which however were not in repair
and had to be operated manually. By the time I was introduced to the
delegates who would be carrying on the test conversations, the sky had
cleared, and sunlight lit up pearls of water hanging from the pale blue
canvas canopies covering the pool area. El Salvador had been invited to
send a delegation -- but of course the right-wing government had ignored
the offer -- which was just as well, in case someone should become too
curious about "Dr. Felipe Elizalde" and his new-found engineering career
in Cuba. The plan was this: the conference was going to open with a
plenary session. While the delegates were meeting, I would go out with
three of the MININT escorts -- at least one of which was G-2, I was sure,
and run a last-minute test. Then, after a big lunch, the delegates would be
driven around town, and during this excursion, a chosen few of them
would be properly impressed by the "first socialist cellular phone system
in the world."
Well, the preliminary tests went fine. I was relieved, needless to
say. I still had little appetite for lunch, but I managed to make my way
halfway through a plate of doughy "socialist spaghetti" with Professor
Apodaca and a couple of his students who were helping us out. The
students were thrilled. One quoted a saying of Fidel's: think development,
not consumption -- new technology plus a rigorously socialist attitude
leads to the creation of the New Man.
Well, I thought, I was going to give them the new technology, the
product of exploitative capitalism. Maybe with a the proper socialist
attitude they could cellular-talk their way into the Promised Land of Marx
and Engels. Engels reminded me of my father -- and the necessity for the
phone system to work, and work right!
I rode in the Alfa with Fidel. He had taken pictures of all of us,
including the Volga van full of bodyguards that rode behind us as we
headed out the Rampa toward the Malecon. The other cars in the test
were headed in different directions, one through the harbor tunnel to El
Morro castle, others south toward the Plaza de la Revolucion and the
zoo, still others west toward Miramar. The streets were full of people.
Everybody knew Fidel's car, and he stopped to shake hands and give
impromptu speeches. Soon the other cars had been gone over twenty
minutes, and still we hadn't reached the waterside, where we had planned
to test out the system. I squirmed. Fidel waved at the driver to stop
again.
"We have to move on, Comandante," I said. He glanced at me, but
then a young girl reached over to shake his hand and he pulled her close
and kissed her, making a loud smacking noise. "We can't let them get out
of range," I said.
He turned and made a face. "All right." He looked at his watch.
"But we should still have plenty of time, Comrade Elizalde."
The car started again, but an old man selling cloth remnants stood
directly in front of the car and we shuddered to a halt.
"Comandante," I said.
"Never mind, Just a minute."
A young soldier came up and wanted to talk to Fidel about getting
into the technical institute after his military service. My squirming was
making the car seat damp underneath me. Fidel had his Minolta out and
was taking the soldier's picture. He looked like a friendly Santa Claus in
olive-drab. "I'm going to try to call somebody up at the ordinary
phone at the Havana Libre," I said. "Just a check."
Fidel's head, bent over the camera, jerked up. "No, no, not a good
idea. Don't worry." He patted the soldier on the shoulder and motioned
to the driver. "We'll get going."
I told him it would be a good time to check out the signal
transmission. But Fidel was insisting on the first call being vehicle-to-
vehicle communication between him and the Mexican Minister of
Agriculture in the car heading toward El Morro. He was afraid the
Minister would call him first and might find the line busy.
He waved an arm in the familiar sweeping gesture, as adapted for the
inside of a car. "We know the system will work between vehicles and
stationary phones, don't we?"
"It will work for all phones," I said, crossing my fingers and hoping
that I was right. Actually, it was conceivable that problems might arise
even with the stationary-link switching -- but I sure hoped not. The Alfa
accelerated, Fidel waved idly at the crowds. We reached the shoreline and
pulled over. Fidel picked up the phone set and looked questioningly at
me. I nodded my head. He rang the number of the Minister's auto, we
got a faint sound of ringing and then the flat, nasal "out-of-range" buzz.
"They've gone too far east," I said, "that must be it."
Fidel scowled. "It doesn't work."
"It works, Comandante, they must have gone too far, our last cell
covers only the harbor area.
Fidel's scowl turned into pensiveness. "He did want to see
Varadero."
Varadero Beach was 100 kilometers from Havana, impossibly far
away. I suggested we try calling another car.
Fidel shook his head. "It doesn't work."
Just then the phone rang. "You see, you're wrong, it does work," I
said. "To hell with Mexican ministers, it works!"
Fidel stopped the car and picked up the phone and listened. I didn't
care about Fidel's stubborn insistence on calling one particular car, I didn't
care about anything but that it worked, this crazy system that I'd had to
build practically out of number 12 wire and discarded circuit boards. Let
them put me and my whole family in jail in Cuba, at that moment it didn't
matter, the system was working under a real field test -- and to hell with
anything else!
"What?" he said. "What was that, Pineda?"
Pineda was back at the G-2 offices so I figured that the stationary
link worked fine.
Fidel pulled the phone away from his mouth.
"It works!" I said. "Our first call!"
"Comrade Elizalde," he said, looking at the driver and his bodyguard.
"This ingenious system of yours works perfectly."
Me: I knew it would, I knew it!"
Him: Your phone has just relayed a very interesting piece of news.
Me: Good, good, the system should turn out to be extremely useful,
Comandante, you'll see."
Him: You may be interested to learn that Federico Revueltos and
another man have escaped from La Cabana and are at large somewhere
in the vicinity of Havana.
Me: (total silence, a cold lump forming in my belly.)
Him (speaking to an officer standing beside the Alfa): Drop
Comrade Elizalde off at G-2 headquarters. (He put his mouth to the
phone again and talked. Then he talked to me, his eyes staring away, out
to sea.) I've told Colonel Pineda to expect you. (He shrugged,
scrunching his massive shoulders up toward his big ears.) Too bad!
Me (in my quiet-as-a-mouse voice): Too bad what? (My stomach
had grown as empty as a Cuban grocery store as the officer took me by
the arm to lead me away.)
Him: You were doing so well. So well, Comrade Elizalde. Too bad
you couldn't wait and do things the easy way.
==================================================
PLANS
by Otho Eskin
(Part 5 of "Julie," a play based on "Miss Julie" by August Strindberg, a
new version by Otho Eskin)
CHARACTERS:
MISS JULIE White, early thirties, the only daughter of a "patrician"
family in the deep south
RANSOM African-American, late twenties. The family chauffeur.
CORA African-American, early twenties. The family cook.
PLACE:
The kitchen of a large, once-elegant home somewhere in the Deep South.
One door leads to the kitchen garden. Another door leads to Cora's
bedroom.
TIME:
Sometime during the 1930's. It is Saturday night Midsummer's Night
(June 23). At Rise: the sky, seen through the doors, is still light. As the
play progresses the sky will darken, then lighten again with morning.
AT RISE: The kitchen, immediately afterward. RANSOM and JULIE.
RANSOM has just taken a revolver from a cupboard.
JULIE
That's my father's old gun, isn't it?
RANSOM
Pick it up. I won' stop you. You can shoot me if that what you want. It's
loaded.
(JULIE stares at the gun.)
RANSOM
(Continued)
It wouldn' really be murder. I'm just a uppity nigger. You just tell the
sheriff I tried to lay a hand on you. No one'd blame you for shootin' me.
They'd all say you did the right thing defendin' yore honor from a black
man. No one would do anything to you.
(JULIE pours another glass of
brandy, drains it.)
JULIE
I think we'd better leave if we're going to catch that bus for Memphis.
RANSOM
Then you decided to go north with me?
JULIE
What choice do I have?
RANSOM
I'm not sure I want to go wit' you. Just to spend the rest of our lives
makin' one another miserable.
JULIE
Maybe we could give one another a little pleasure for a few days a few
weeks.
RANSOM
An' what happens after that?
JULIE
We die.
RANSOM
We die? That crazy! I rather live.
JULIE
You don't want to die with me?
RANSOM
I don' wan' to die at all. With you or nobody else. I like bein' alive.
JULIE
What are you going to do?
RANSOM
I don' understand.
JULIE
You've ruined me. You owe me something.
(RANSOM takes some coins
from his pocket and tosses them
on the table.)
RANSOM
I don't wan' to be in nobody's debt.
JULIE
We've got to get married. That could solve everything.
RANSOM
What if I say no?
JULIE
You wouldn't.
RANSOM
You think the chance to marry you so good I couldn' turn you down just
'cause you white. You know what I think? I think if I married you I'd be
comin' down in the world.
JULIE
How can you say that?
RANSOM
I know all 'bout yore family. Everyone in the county know. You put on
airs an' you ack like aristocracy
JULIE
How dare you talk to me that way!
RANSOM
Yore family pretend you live here from way back in plantation times. But
everyone know yore great grandaddy was a dirt farmer who made a
fortune sellin' shoddy goods to the Confederate Army.
JULIE
Don't do this.
RANSOM
Those boys were dyin' 'cause the guns he sold wouldn' shoot. That yore
great, aristocratic family. Yore great grandaddy bought this place from his
profits after the War along with all the old furniture an' paintin's an'
silver.
JULIE
Why are you hurting me like this?
RANSOM
I don' got any fine family tree with no oil paintin's. My people were
slaves. I'd say they's a lot more honor in my family than yore's.
JULIE
You know nothing about me.
RANSOM
I know all I need to know.
JULIE
You must understand who I am.
RANSOM
I don' think you should tell me this.
JULIE
You've heard about the great fire everyone in the county knows about
it. Father's warehouse in town the machine shop, the
factory everything destroyed. The sheriff suspected arson but could
never prove anything. I know you've heard the story: the fire happened
on the very day the insurance had to be paid. My father thought he had
sent his check for the premium but somehow the check was not mailed in
time.
(JULIE pours herself another
drink.)
RANSOM
I don' wan' you to drink no more.
JULIE
After the fire, we were ruined. Father tried to barrow money from the
bank to rebuild the factory but he couldn't pay the interest. Then my
mother suggested that my father borrow the money from an old friend of
hers a businessman from Nashville. Father went to this man and he
gave him the loan. So he was able to rebuild the business. You want to
know who set the fire? My own mother. She hated my father. But that
wasn't the end of her revenge. You want to know who this generous
businessman was? Mother's lover. Afterward she told my father about
where the money came from. It almost destroyed him. You've heard the
story about what happened. Everyone knows that story. Father got an
old service revolver which had belonged to his father that one lying on
the table there and he locked himself in his study. He told the servants
not to disturb him. He stayed there all night and most of the next day.
But he couldn't do it. He lost his nerve. Father told me in the morning he
opened the window and threw the gun into the garden. Father and mother
never talked to one another after that. They lived together for another ten
years but never exchanged a word. Sometimes mother would sit for hours
in the gazebo sometimes all night. He never forgave her for
dishonoring him by taking a lover. She never forgave him for dishonoring
her by not having the courage to kill himself.
RANSOM
I warned you not to drink so much. When you drink, you talk.
JULIE
You make me so ashamed. If only you loved me.
RANSOM
What you wan' me to do? You wan' me to jump over yore ridin' crop?
What you want? I don' understand you. In my world we don' have scenes
like this. We don' go 'round hatin' each other. We gotta work all day an'
most of the night too. We don' got time for this. When we got time, we
make love. But we don' go on an' on talkin' 'bout it day an' night.
JULIE
Be kind to me. Tell me what to do! Father will be back any moment.
RANSOM
We gotta get out of here. Right now. It's almost daylight.
JULIE
I remember other Midsummer days. When I was little. Flowers and dinner
parties. When I was happy. However far we run, there will always be
memories. And shame and remorse and guilt.
RANSOM
Stop talkin' like that..
JULIE
I can't go. I can't stay. Give me orders. Tell me what to do. I can't
think any more.
RANSOM
You weak! All yore kind are weak. You pretend to be bett'r'n everybody
else but you can't do nothin'. Just like yore daddy. Awright, you want
orders, I'll give you orders. Go upstairs. Get dressed. Find some money.
JULIE
I don't have any...
RANSOM
Yore daddy got any hidden away somewhere?
JULIE
I think so... in his desk maybe.
RANSOM
Get it!
JULIE
He keeps it locked...
RANSOM
Get the money anyway you can. Then come back here.
JULIE
Come with me.
RANSOM
To yore room? You really crazy. No.
(RANSOM leads JULIE toward
the front door.)
JULIE
Please be kind, Ransom.
RANSOM
Orders always sound unkind. 'bout time you learnt that.
(JULIE leaves. Outside, dawn
begins to break. CORA enters.)
CORA
Look at the time. (SHE looks around the kitchen) Lord Almighty! What
you been up to, Ransom?
RANSOM
Nothin'.
CORA
I musta fallen to sleep. Maybe it escapin' yore memory, Ransom, but you
promise to take me to church this mornin' an' you not even ready.
(CORA gets RANSOM's coat and
tie.)
CORA
You look a mess. You sleep last night?
RANSOM
I guess not.
CORA
What on earth you been doin', Ransom?
RANSOM
Talkin' to Miss Julie.
CORA
What you talkin' 'bout?
RANSOM
Nothin' important.
CORA
You been drinkin'. The two of you drinkin'. Together.
RANSOM
What of it?
CORA
Look me in the eye, Ransom. Did you? Tell me honest. Did you an' her?
RANSOM
Why you commin' on so high an' mighty, Sugar? It done mean nothin'.
CORA
Nigger, you bin actin' like a damn fool! How could you do such a fool
thing!?
RANSOM
You jealous?
CORA
Of Miss Julie? No way I be jealous a' her. But I sure be mad you. You
think you can treat me like some common girl from Track Street? You
think can treat me like dirt? I got my pride, Ransome.
RANSOM
I tol' you it don' mean nothing. Jus' forget it.
CORA
Forget it? I'm not gonna forget it. An I'm not gonna let you forget it
neither. An' another thing, I'm not gone' to stay in this house 'nother day.
I won't stay in a house where the servants don't know they place. Where
white folks ain't shown proper respect.
RANSOM
Why should we respect them? They don' deserve no respect.
CORA
Well, Mr. Smarty, Mr. Been-to-the-big-city-know-it-all, if you right, I
won't stay in the service of people who ain't respectable. I won' demean
myself.
RANSOM
Ain't it fine to find out they no better'n us?
CORA
If they no better 'n us, then they's nothin' for us to aspire to.
RANSOM
You talkin' nonsense, girl.
CORA
I givin' my notice soon as the judge come back. I cain't stay here knowin'
Miss Julie, who so proud, who hated all men, give herself to you no
better'n a field hand.
RANSOM
There's no call for you to leave, Cora....
CORA
An' you gotta leave too. You should be lookin' for another position. You
cain't stay here. Not after what happened.
RANSOM
I can't go back to workin' the farm.
CORA
They's that tire plant over at Sultan. They say they hirin'. Good benefits.
Even a 'tirement plan.
RANSOM
I'm too young to start thinkin' 'bout 'tirement. I'm not gonna settle into
some dumb job for the rest of my life. I got bigger plans.
CORA
You and' yore plans! You been talkin' 'bout yore plans ever since I
knowd you an' ain't nothin' come of them yet. You all talk, Ransom.
Time you faced that. You gonna have obligations. It's time you started
thinkin' 'bout them.
RANSOM
Don' start hasslin' me 'bout my obligations, woman, hear? Now go on an'
get dressed for church.
(CORA exits. The sun has risen
and is slanting through the
windows. RANSOM goes to the
door and gestures for JULIE to
enter. JULIE enters, dressed in
traveling clothes and carrying a
bird cage)
JULIE
I'm ready.
RANSOM
Be quiet! Cora's awake.
JULIE
Does she suspect?
RANSOM
Not a thing. You white like a corpse.
JULIE
The sun is up. That breaks the Midsummer's Night spell, they say.
RANSOM
You get the money?
JULIE
Yes.
RANSOM
How much you get?
JULIE
Enough for us to start a new life.
RANSOM
We gotta hurry.
===================================================
=================================================
